


And He Couldn't Help It

by StrictlyFromCorn (orphan_account)



Category: Lawrence of Arabia (1962)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:52:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/StrictlyFromCorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lawrence has had to choose the greater cause of Arab independence over many things, but this is the hardest choice he has ever made. AU-verse where he meets Sarah Aaronsohn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And He Couldn't Help It

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first Lawrence of Arabia fanfic, so hurray! Everyone's been debating about the "to S.A." dedication in Seven Pillars, and my biography mentions how it could've been dedicated to Sarah Aaronsohn. I don't know about the credibility, but hey, it's fic! So this is an AU-verse where he is in a relationship with Sarah, as he tries to get over his feelings for Janet Laurie, but his shot at happiness is ruined in the end, after all. It's kind of a mix between the movie and real life, so, yeah!

“Lawrence, you’ve got to be out of your blessed mind! If you walk into that village, right now, the Turks are going to recognize you as ‘that bloody Englishman’ and shoot you down like a _dog_!” That was the third time Brighton had shouted that statement into his face, but it still seemed to have no effect on Lawrence. He was hysterical— and for a man not given to huge emotional displays, that meant he was absolutely _out of control._ No one had seen him behave that way before, and indeed, no one had any idea what to do. The man the Arabs referred to affectionately as “El Aurens” was on the verge of a total breakdown upon receiving the news of his girlfriend’s capture by the enemy.

“I’ve got to go, Brighton, I’ve got to go. She needs help. I can’t— I’m going. I’m going.” Lawrence’s hands were shaking violently; in fact, his whole body was trembling like it had never done before. He was seized with such intense emotion that he felt like he was going to be ill. He couldn’t afford to throw up then, though— no, his needs didn’t matter at that moment. His first priority was to make sure that Sarah was alright. His pale face was flushed with red, and he was having trouble breathing because he was so anxious. Lawrence felt like his chest had tightened up, his heart was palpitating, and even though it hurt to breathe, he was hyperventilating.

“Lawrence. Use your common sense.” Brighton reached out to grab Lawrence’s wrist as the latter attempted to retrieve his revolver from his belt. “I cannot permit you to do this.”

“Then don’t! See if I care!” He jerked his hand backwards, resenting it whenever someone touched him without his permission. With a piercing blue glare at Brighton, he rose to his feet; or, at least, attempted to. It was a much bigger obstacle to Lawrence than it should have been, given how fit he was, but he was shaking so very hard. He almost felt like he wasn’t in control of his body any longer, like he was detached from reality, but the thought of Sarah in the custody of the Turks, being mercilessly tortured for information about _him_ was motivation enough to help him get up. A second wasted with Brighton was a second he could be trying to get Sarah back.

“Do you want to die? Do you want to end your splendid career in the Middle East like _this_? Shot down by the Turks while riding into a garrisoned town, alone?” Brighton was beginning to lose his patience with this man. Brilliant as he was, it was undeniable that Lawrence did some questionable and idiotic things from time to time. Oh, and this was absolute _bullshit_ , for the lack of a better, more proper word word. He couldn’t understand how Lawrence just wanted to ride into the heart of the enemy’s holdings, expecting to get killed. Self-preservation seemed to be an alien concept to the man.

“ _Yes_.” There was so much intensity in Lawrence’s tone and conviction in his blue gaze that Brighton was left at a loss for words for a minute. As far as Lawrence was concerned, he knew he was going to get Sarah back, or die trying. “If any of the Arabs try to come with me, send them back. You can’t afford to lose any more men.” She meant the world to him, and he was willing to entertain no other possibility in his mind. Death, or Sarah. Death, or Sarah. It was calming for him to repeat that phrase over and over in his mind as he readied his guns and cast periodic glances in Brighton’s direction. Lawrence’s capacity for self-control was remarkable; it seemed like the frenzied man from earlier had all but disappeared and he was calm and collected again, except for the violent shaking of his hands as he prepared the weapons.

“I’ll _order_ you not to go.” That was the only fallback Brighton could rely on, and it came out rather lamely — like a stammering schoolboy’s suggestion rather than an army commander giving orders to his inferior. Putting his hands on his hips did nothing to make him appear more authoritative.

Still, it was enough to make Lawrence stop his frantic preparations for a moment. He’d never disobeyed army orders before, besides the whole “grooming” thing, because that was “absurdly silly”. In terms of direct army orders, on the battlefield— well, _obeying_ them was what had helped him stay alive that long.

“Lawrence, I’ll have you charged with insubordination.” Brighton tried to expand on the possibility of that threat to bring Lawrence back to his senses. The trembling in the latter’s hands hadn’t stopped — in fact, it had gotten worse with the anxiety of being touched and the frustrating thought that he was wasting time.

“Sarah _needs_ me.” He finally gave that answer in response to Brighton’s words. Satisfactory or not, he didn’t give a damn. “There’s no use, Brighton. No one can stop me.” They both knew that was the truth, even though Brighton was still stubbornly clinging to the notion that he could somehow persuade Lawrence not to effectively commit suicide.

“What if the Turks don’t kill you? What if the Turks torture you, too?” The words that left Brighton’s mouth made Lawrence freeze again. He felt a little bad for invoking such a terrible image, but if it was going to stop Lawrence, then it was justified.

“So be it.” This time, Lawrence’s statement wavered in confidence, as if he was unsure whether he was willing to go through that. Death wasn’t too bad of an option for him — this man had been termed the most reckless in the Arabian desert — but he knew what the Turks were capable of. “It’s what they’re doing to Sarah now, aren’t they?” He told himself over and over that he shouldn’t be scared of what the Turks would do; after all, this was his heroic moment! He had to shine, like Odysseus did! And yet, strangely enough, Lawrence didn’t feel one bit heroic. He felt like a tiny, insignificant presence on the stage that was the world, like a mass of panic and nerves with a pounding heart on the inside and a brave exterior that was falling to pieces.

“Think about Allenby, at least! What am I going to tell him? That I let T.E. Lawrence ride to his death, and that he’s lost one of his best spies, too? What of the war effort? _You’re_ the man that can lead the Arabs to their independence. You’ve got to think of all that before simply running into Nili and asking to get shot.” Ah-ha! Now Brighton had hit upon what Lawrence valued the most, subconsciously. It wasn’t honor in the army, it wasn’t getting out of there alive, but it was the freedom of the Arabs.

It worked. He fixed Brighton with a pleading look, almost begging him not to go on because he knew he’d be swayed.

“It’s a war, Lawrence. You’ve got to realize that… people die.” Brighton tried not to look at Lawrence in the eye as he continued making the pitch. He’d found the hero’s Achilles’ heel. “It’s a necessary sacrifice. You’ve _got_ to keep yourself alive. If not for your own sake, for the Arabs’ sake.” Lawrence wanted to lash out at Allenby, and make him _shut up_ because every word felt like unbearable agony to him. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was having to _choose_.

But he remained quiet instead and gripped the edge of the table, trying to steady himself. The emotional turmoil was reaching a breaking point for Lawrence — oh, _God_ , now he had to choose between the people whom he’d grown so fond of and the noble cause for them gaining independence, or the one girl he actually thought he had a shot at happiness with. But deep down, Brighton and Lawrence knew which one he would pick.

It wasn’t even a choice for him — it was as if this crossroads had been written in the past, like a test one of the Greek heroes had to pass to prove his valiance. If Lawrence had the power to, he would’ve run outside the tent and screamed to the skies and the blazing sun about how unfair it was that _he_ had to go through this suffering. He didn’t want to be “extraordinary” any longer. He would’ve given anything to be one of those ordinary boys back home in England with a wife and kids and a respectable job and some drinking buddies who went to the horse races together sometimes.

But no. He was Lawrence of Arabia. This was his destiny. This was what he was meant to be.

And he couldn’t help it.

With a murmured “I’m so sorry, Sarah”, he placed the revolver on the table in front of Brighton and turned on his heel quickly. For once, Lawrence was glad of the desert’s sweltering heat, because no one except himself could tell the difference between the tears and sweat on his face.


End file.
